


Chump Change

by MixterGlacia



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Loss, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-08 23:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13468629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MixterGlacia/pseuds/MixterGlacia
Summary: On a quiet night, Wash's hand ghosts over the new scars on his neck. He does what he's best at. He remembers.





	Chump Change

**Author's Note:**

> Back to your regularly scheduled Maine/Wash.

Wash is out of the hospital. He listens to the sounds of his found family snoring away in their bunks. His hand touches the new scars at the base of his throat. Memories plague him.

 

* * *

 

Wash first met Maine during his second training session. Well, technically he met the hulking man when he was introduced to the team, but they had all been dispersed shortly after, so Wash doesn't count that.

 

They were running stealth drills and Wash sees a ripple of active camouflage in his peripherals. One of the sentry drones decided that would be the best possible moment to swing around. It's beam of light flicks from a cheerful green to blinking red, an alarm blaring overhead. The Director sighs over the loudspeakers.

 

“Agent Maine, we've discussed this. You can't expect to let your camouflage do all the work. It's fine on people and film because of the light refraction, but a scanner will not be fooled. I expected better from you this time.”

 

There's a snarl that sounds more at home in a horror film than in real life before Maine melts into view. He'd stood right in the middle of the path, not even attempting to hide behind the pylons. The plating on his gloves creak ever so slightly when the tall soldier balls his hands into tight fists.

 

When he thinks back, Wash isn't sure why he decided to subtly lean over to Maine and whisper, “Y’know, that guy's kind of a dick.”

 

For one heart stopping moment, he thinks he's upset his roommate before Wash even got the chance to see the room itself. Then a snort breaks the tension, with Maine thumping Wash on his shoulder. It hurt like hell, but with someone as frightening as Maine laughing at Wash’s humor, the ache fades quickly.

 

Later, Maine takes shelter behind the same corner as Wash, uncloaked. As the drones begin to turn, the smaller of the two notices that Maine's leg is right in the path of one. He quickly wraps an arm around the man's middle, yanking him further into cover. (As best he can, it feels like he's wrangling a polar bear, rather than a man.) Wash motions to be silent when Maine whips around to surely sling abuse at the newest recruit, pointing to the drone as it hovers past.

 

Maine's shoulders loosen. He glances back to Wash, seemingly judging him behind the golden dome of his visor. Then he simply pats Wash on the back before moving on.

* * *

 

 

That night, Wash finds out that Maine has an issue with blind spots. He's turned into their room in the younger man's wake, and finds himself being elbowed right in the chest. Even in the power armor as he is, Wash is knocked flat on his ass.

 

Maine jumps subtly, and turns to help the rookie to his feet, rumbling in a way that borders on sheepish.

 

“It's fine.” Wash takes Maine’s hand, pulling himself up. “Guess I just presumed you noticed I was there.”

 

Maine speaks to him for the first time, voice low and rolling. “Blind spots. Didn't think anyone was around.”

 

Wash scratches at the Kevlar covering his throat, chuckling. “That actually explains some stuff.”

 

There's a soft, curious rattle that Wash interprets as a 'tell me more’ sort of thing.

 

“The stealth session, you kept hanging out of cover pretty often... Thought it was just you giving the Director the metaphorical finger, but I guess I was wrong.” He sighs, rolling a shoulder. “Dunno about you, but I'm ready to pass out.”

 

Maine stays in the doorway for another fraction of a second before recognizing that Wash meant to come inside. The tall man chuffs an apology under his breath, heading into the bunks.

 

“It's cool, big guy.” Wash follows close behind, hesitating at his bedside before thumbing at the latches of his helmet. His dreadlocks fall from what must have been the hundreth snapped hair tie that day. The feeling of eyes on him is overwhelming, prompting him to turn around cautiously.

 

Maine's helmet reflects Wash's own face back at him. Suffice it to say this was mildly unsettling. Mildly. After what feels like years, Maine snorts and removes his own headgear. He's not attractive in the normal sense of the word but... something about him makes it hard to look away. The eyes probably did it for Wash. Like smouldering embers, keen and full of intensity.

 

Thankfully, Maine doesn't linger long. He goes to shower and Wash changes out of his armor and Kevlar. At least he's got a roommate he can get along with.

 

* * *

 

 

Maine is assumed to be brainless by the grand majority of the people who interact with him. Take this snooty bitch, for example. She didn't even know she was part of one of their simulation communities. Here she is thinking she's the boss, when the soldiers she's lecturing built her quaint, prissy world.

 

She grates on Wash's nerves in the worst possible way. Then she lays this little gem on top of the shit sundae.

 

“Goodness knows why the military saw fit to hire your...friend here. A gorilla would have been cheaper.”

 

Before a proper snarl can bubble from Maine's throat, Wash rounds on the woman, squaring his shoulders. “Ma’am, we are the only reason bandits didn't overrun your township. Maine is almost  _ certainly _ more intelligent than you.” The older man cuts off her indignant gasp. “Not to mention more polite. If I were related to you, I'd be mortified of your treatment of your heros.”

 

When he turns away, the woman is sputtering in his wake. Wash grabs Maine's hand, leading him back to their dropship. They arrive in silence, boarding the Pelican swiftly.

 

“You didn't have to say anything to her.” Maine nearly whispers after take off. “I'm okay with it.”

 

“I'm not.” Wash retorts, looking over his sidearm. “We're not just suits of armor, it's about time people learned that.”

 

“You don't defend Car’ like that.”

 

“Because she'd do it herself.” Wash snaps. “You don't have to sit there and take that.”

 

“It doesn't bother me, Wash.” Maine stresses, sitting in one of the wall mounted safety seats.

 

“It's not about if it  _ bothers _ you, it's about if they think they're in the right.” Wash's voice goes dark, shoulders drawn together. “They think you can treat people like that. It's not okay.”

 

Maine doesn't verbally respond, but the way he reaches over to thump Wash on the back speaks volumes.

 

“... Let's get back to the Mother Of Invention.”

 

* * *

 

Wash hears a bizarre noise from Maine's bunk. It's brimming with a fluttering panic that is so out of place, the sleep deprived Freelancer thinks someone else mistook this for their own room. The massive shape of Maine's shadow gives him away. 

 

Wash slips from his bunk, rubbing his eyes to clear the haze from his vision. “Maine?”

 

No response. Not even a 'I will kill you if you keep talking, go the fuck to sleep Wash.’ growl. (It came up more often than you would think.)

 

Then the reedy distressed whine rings out once more. Wash slinks closer, bracing to dodge a punch that never happens. Maine has his forehead pressed into the wall, teeth gritted. Suddenly enough to startle Wash, the younger man's arm shoots skyward, smacking his knuckles into the top of the recessed bed. 

 

Wash can tell that Maine is awake from the subtle hitch in his breathing, how he tenses up for a fraction of a second. 

 

His friend rolls over, eyes heavy with restless sleep. He grunts in a way Wash had learned was to get his attention.

 

“You okay, big guy?”

 

There's a beat of silence, making Wash worry Maine is going to shove it all under the rug but the man just sighs, exhaustion threading into the sound.

 

Maine shakes his head.

 

“... Nightmare?” Wash guesses.

 

A nod.

 

“How can I help?” Wash shifts his weight, sliding his hands into the pockets of his sleep pants.

 

The air goes dead, leading Wash to the conclusion that the offer was somehow offensive to Maine. Then he's handed a tablet. It's the one Maine brings everywhere, so he can read in the lulls of missions.

 

“Can you…” he trails off into a grumble.

 

Wash gets the picture, thumbing into the book. He smiles at his roommates choice.

 

“This journey took place in a part of Canada which lies in the northwestern part of the great sprawling province of Ontario…”

 

The journey winds along and Wash is glad Maine doesn't make fun of how much he loves the cat. He's in the middle of a personal rant on why she's the best character when gun-calloused fingers weave into his free hand. Wash stutters out a garbled mess of what he intended to say next, clearing his throat. He manages to get through the speech and realizes that Maine's breathing had evened out. 

 

Wash allows himself a quiet smile before shutting off the tablet. The next morning would find him curled into Maine's arms, hands still laced together. 

 

Wash can't be bothered to care.

 

They don't talk about that night. Not at first, anyway. They had missions to deal with, data to gather. Maine grows more tactile. Ruffling Wash's dreadlocks, leaning into him when they read in their room, lightly headbutting him for attention. (At that point, Wash came to the conclusion that Maine was not a man, but a giant murderous cat. A mountain lion maybe.)

 

Wash likes the attention. He somehow climbs onto the leaderboard. They go on more missions.

 

* * *

 

 

A rare shore leave is sprung out of nowhere, leaving Wash and Maine in a cafe with no one but the wait staff. 

 

“Hey, Maine?”

 

The soldier cocks his head, a faint trill is nearly lost beneath the already soft jazz spilling from the speakers.

 

“Is this how folks act when they're dating?”

 

The thing was, half of Maine's conversations were comprised of growls and guttural noises. Wash didn’t notice that until York pointed it out.

 

_ “Does it matter?” _ Maine gruffs, sipping his watered down cup of coffee. (Wash always got the strongest drink on the menu, whining if they only had “shitty white girl” options.)

 

“Kinda.”

 

_ “Do you want it to be a date?” _

 

Wash shrugs his bad shoulder. 

 

_ “Y'know, I'm supposed to be the quiet one here.” _ Maine snickers into his mug, glancing over the rim.

 

“You're doing Maine-Speak, that doesn't count.” Wash shoots back, brows raising judgmentally. “But...I guess I'd like to be dating. As long as it doesn't change how-” The older man gestures at the space between them. “-this works. I like how we are.”

 

_ “It won't be any different. Just called a different name.” _

 

Wash slides over to lean against Maine. “Promise?”

 

Maine nods.

 

* * *

 

 

Wash can hear his heart thundering. He clocks his head hard enough to knock him into one of the bucket seats in the Pelican as he races to look out the back. 10-53 was always his least favorite thing to hear. 

 

10-53. 4736.

 

Man down. Maine.

 

It’s a damn wonder the flight crew keeps him from jumping out to go help.

 

His lungs burn, eyes darting across the report on his HUD. 

 

10-71.

 

Shooting.

 

Wash is not ready to deal with this. 

 

_ ‘What happened? I should have been there. Probably a blindspot again. I failed him. If he dies it’s my fault. All my fault.’  _ The threads of his mind draw into a web of frustration and self loathing, snaring him so tight it was likely he’d never get free.

 

All the while the HUD flashes on.

 

10-53.

 

4736.

 

10-71.

 

* * *

 

 

Wash never liked Sigma. Which was fitting because Sigma never found Wash as his favourite either. 

 

Maine stops talking to him, not even in Maine-Speak. Sigma gets upset when Wash shushes him, to encourage his partner to speak for himself. Then Maine will turn away, motions too smooth to be his own.

 

Wash finds out that Maine (Sigma in all likelihood.) applied to change rooms. He succeeds and now Wash has a room that feels so cold and empty it threatens to swallow him whole. 

 

Maine’s scheduling changes. Maine  _ hated _ when he had to break routine. 

 

Maine stops eating with the crew and Wash is suspicious if he’s even eating at all.

 

They’re in the locker room after a mission and Wash’s heart stops when he sees the new tattoo clawing down the back of Maine’s head. He knows these symbols and it draws ice further into his veins to think what this means.

 

Epsilon comes into his life. He’s just coming out from the anesthetic when he  _ swears _ he can hear Maine and Sigma.

 

_ “He can come too.” _

 

**_“Don’t be stupid. He’s a threat.”_ **

 

_ “Easier with two of us.” _

 

**_“He’d never agree.”_ **

 

_ “I never agreed.” _

 

**_“Don’t twist my words.”_ **

 

_ “Because you’re the only one that gets to do that.” _

 

**_“We’re leaving.”_ **

 

_ “Just let me have one last thing.” _

 

**_“Make it fast.”_ **

 

Wash feels a gun-calloused palm slip into his. Rough lips press against his own. Maine doesn’t linger, pulling away. The sound of a helmet locking into place echoes.

 

_ “...I love you, Wash. Don’t follow me...goodbye.” _

 

When Wash can sit up, the MOI is going down and everyone is gone or dying from the impact.

 

Wash doesn’t get the chance to run.

 

* * *

 

 

Recovery One makes him deny Maine’s last wishes. Agent Washington hunts the Meta. Agent South sets a trap.  The Meta allows one final chance for Wash. He barely makes out a growl over the sound of blood thrumming in his ears.

 

_ “Don’t follow me Wash.” _

 

He doesn’t listen.

  
  



End file.
